Chapter 1
My husband was dead.
His body lay sprawled across the white honeymoon sheets, a deep crimson stain blooming beneath him like a grotesque flower, and I couldn't remember a single thing.
"Oh my god — Lily!"
My maid of honor, Harper, was the first through the door. Her scream split the air like glass shattering, and within seconds, my three other bridesmaids came running.
I stood at the foot of the bed, still in my wedding dress, my hands trembling so violently I couldn't feel my fingers. My mind was a void — a black, empty space where last night should have been.
"Is he—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Harper pressed two fingers to Ryan's neck. Her face went gray. "He's cold. He's been dead for hours."
The room tilted sideways, and I grabbed the bedpost to keep myself upright.
This was supposed to be the happiest morning of my life. I was supposed to wake up beside my husband, in this stunning cliffside villa on a private island off the coast of Maine, and begin my forever.
Instead, I woke up on the bathroom floor with no memory of anything past the reception, and now Ryan was dead.
"There's so much blood," whispered Nadia, our friend and an ER surgeon, kneeling beside the bed. Her clinical calm was cracking. "It looks like... a stab wound. Left side of the chest."
My knees buckled. Someone caught me — Grace, I think. Quiet, steady Grace, who was a criminal defense attorney and never panicked. But even her hands were shaking.
"Lily, look at me." Grace held my face between her palms. "Did you see anything? Hear anything?"
"I don't remember," I choked out. "I woke up in the bathroom. The door was locked from inside. I don't know how I got there. I don't know—"
A sob tore out of me so violently it felt like my ribs were cracking.
"Someone else must have been here," said Mara, the last of my bridesmaids, her dark eyes darting around the room. Mara was a forensic psychologist — she'd worked with the FBI. If anyone could make sense of this, it was her.
But making sense of a dead groom on a wedding night? On a private island with no one else around?
We were the only ones here. The wedding planner, the caterer, the officiant — they'd all left on the last boat after the reception. The next ferry wasn't scheduled until noon.
There were only five people on this island. Me and my four bridesmaids.
And one dead man.
"We need to call the police," I said, stumbling toward the nightstand where I'd left my phone.
No signal. Not a single bar.
I looked toward the window. The sky was an angry bruise — dark clouds rolling in from the Atlantic, wind whipping the waves into white-capped fury. A storm. The kind that cuts islands off from the mainland for days.
"The storm knocked out the tower," Grace said quietly, checking her own phone. "I have nothing either."
Harper made a sound — half laugh, half cry. "So we're trapped. On an island. With a dead body. And no way to call for help."
The wind howled against the windows like something trying to get in.
Or something trying to keep us from getting out.
I looked down at my hands — still trembling, still empty — and noticed something that made my blood freeze.
Beneath my French-manicured nails, barely visible against my pale skin, were faint traces of dried blood.
His body lay sprawled across the white honeymoon sheets, a deep crimson stain blooming beneath him like a grotesque flower, and I couldn't remember a single thing.
"Oh my god — Lily!"
My maid of honor, Harper, was the first through the door. Her scream split the air like glass shattering, and within seconds, my three other bridesmaids came running.
I stood at the foot of the bed, still in my wedding dress, my hands trembling so violently I couldn't feel my fingers. My mind was a void — a black, empty space where last night should have been.
"Is he—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
Harper pressed two fingers to Ryan's neck. Her face went gray. "He's cold. He's been dead for hours."
The room tilted sideways, and I grabbed the bedpost to keep myself upright.
This was supposed to be the happiest morning of my life. I was supposed to wake up beside my husband, in this stunning cliffside villa on a private island off the coast of Maine, and begin my forever.
Instead, I woke up on the bathroom floor with no memory of anything past the reception, and now Ryan was dead.
"There's so much blood," whispered Nadia, our friend and an ER surgeon, kneeling beside the bed. Her clinical calm was cracking. "It looks like... a stab wound. Left side of the chest."
My knees buckled. Someone caught me — Grace, I think. Quiet, steady Grace, who was a criminal defense attorney and never panicked. But even her hands were shaking.
"Lily, look at me." Grace held my face between her palms. "Did you see anything? Hear anything?"
"I don't remember," I choked out. "I woke up in the bathroom. The door was locked from inside. I don't know how I got there. I don't know—"
A sob tore out of me so violently it felt like my ribs were cracking.
"Someone else must have been here," said Mara, the last of my bridesmaids, her dark eyes darting around the room. Mara was a forensic psychologist — she'd worked with the FBI. If anyone could make sense of this, it was her.
But making sense of a dead groom on a wedding night? On a private island with no one else around?
We were the only ones here. The wedding planner, the caterer, the officiant — they'd all left on the last boat after the reception. The next ferry wasn't scheduled until noon.
There were only five people on this island. Me and my four bridesmaids.
And one dead man.
"We need to call the police," I said, stumbling toward the nightstand where I'd left my phone.
No signal. Not a single bar.
I looked toward the window. The sky was an angry bruise — dark clouds rolling in from the Atlantic, wind whipping the waves into white-capped fury. A storm. The kind that cuts islands off from the mainland for days.
"The storm knocked out the tower," Grace said quietly, checking her own phone. "I have nothing either."
Harper made a sound — half laugh, half cry. "So we're trapped. On an island. With a dead body. And no way to call for help."
The wind howled against the windows like something trying to get in.
Or something trying to keep us from getting out.
I looked down at my hands — still trembling, still empty — and noticed something that made my blood freeze.
Beneath my French-manicured nails, barely visible against my pale skin, were faint traces of dried blood.